


Black Rock

by yesimcastielsgirl



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Caretaker Dean, Caretaker Sam, Comfort, Depression, Friends With Benefits, Friendship, Gen, depressed reader, hurt reader, self-hate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-01
Updated: 2015-11-01
Packaged: 2018-04-29 09:59:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5123402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yesimcastielsgirl/pseuds/yesimcastielsgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Reader lives with depression. Some days are good, some days are okay, and sometimes it's a Bad Day at Black Rock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Black Rock

**Author's Note:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS: Y'all know I don't usually give those, but this deals with depression and self-hate and self neglect. Everything I'm writing about those topics is 100% true because this is what happens to me.

      The fucking wendigo started it all.  
  
     Looking back over the past five weeks _five weeks holy shit_ the wendigo hunt and the Amazing Fuck-up started this particular stretch into depression and bad places and all the things you tried to handle on your own but couldn't.  
  
     In your private lexicon, you called those days when the depression had its teeth claws in you, riding you into bleak stretches of doubt and guilt, self-loathing and refusal to take of yourself at all – you called that kind of day a Bad Day at Black Rock. When you'd finally starting talking to your best friends about it (and that had been one of the hardest things you'd ever done, to talk about your particular flavor of depression and what it did to you and trying to give them ways to understand how you felt – but it was a damned good thing you had done so, really good), you'd given them that code phrase to let them know when you felt the bleakness shading over you.  
  
      It was a way you could give them a heads up and ask for help without actually asking for help because that was part of the Bad Day. Can't ask for help. Can't take care of yourself.  _You don't fuckin' deserve it._ The alternate sort of Bad Day was when everything was just too much trouble. It took energy and focus you did not have, it felt like you would never have that again. Too much trouble to eat. Too much trouble to take your meds. Way too much trouble to take a shower and get your hair wet _fuck's sake it would take hours to dry and look terrible when it did, so why bother_.  That kind of Black Rock crap left you curled in your bed, in the dark, dozing as much as possible huddled in your blankets and pillows. No real sleep, though if you did manage to dip into actual sleep the dreams were bad, hot and unhappy, leaving you strung out from insomnia-like symptoms. Hiding in your Fortress of Depressitude, as you called it, in a black humored attempt to make the situation seem less serious.  
  
     It had been a long time since the Black Rock days though. Really, you'd been doing well for months. Getting up in the daytime, showering, clean clothes. Taking the meds, eating, going out and hunting alone or with your friends, doing research because you rather liked it and had a gift for it. Plus.. it was something you and Sam Winchester shared and could do together, over endless cups of coffee and tea. Gaming with Charlie Bradbury because she understood and would make Dean leave you alone when you were raiding, except to extort him to make you some nachos and other 'Gamer food man, she has to have it to win, you don't know how hard these avatars can get dude.' Movie nights with Dean Winchester that erupted into popcorn and pillow brawls more often that one would expect from two grown-ass hunters.    
  
   You shared any and all of it with Castiel the angel when he was around, when he could and would stay. He'd proved to be an excellent adviser for raiding tactics once he understood the goal. Watching movies and TV shows for Cas' first time was really a pleasure. You'd be reminded of why you liked  a particular show or film so much yourself. You found the once and future angel's company something to treasure. He was just so much there, so much Cas. He didn't hide too much and his reactions, while often odd, were genuine. It was weirdly restful. Then there was, you know, the whole wanting to jump his bones thing. You kept that whole line of thought/fantasy/wishing WAY out of your head when Cas was around. You had a special locked door in your mind and all those desires were kept firmly shut away lest Castiel somehow become aware of them and it spoil your friendship.  
  
    Well. You didn't share with Cas the occasional friends with benefits thing you had going with Dean, or the separate one you had with Charlie. No chick flick moments. Those arrangements were private and extremely important and somehow too sacred. _Best friends that sometimes give each other orgasms_ was how Charlie had characterized it.  There was a whole lot of warmth and comfort and physical contact just for the grace of that human touch, too. (And orgasms)  Sam.. you were sure Sam knew something about what was going on but he hadn't mentioned it. You loved him too, you loved all your friends, and if all Sam wanted or would accept was hugs and forehead kisses and the occasional snuggled up nap, then that was fine. (You could admit to yourself you'd had idle daydreams about Sam reaching for more than just friendship and _dang_ but that was entertaining. No pressure though.)  
  
      Still, all things considered, you were doing pretty well. Until the fuckin' wendigo hunt.  
  
     Bad information, stupid college kid campers running around like chickens with their heads cut off. You hadn't actually been injured by the damned wendigo and that was what _really_ pissed you the most. One of the assholes you'd been trying to rescue had seen you with a gun “A FLARE GUN YOU THICK-SKULLED TOAD” and full on tackled you to the ground, breaking said flare gun plus your arm and two of your ribs ribs in the process, giving you a partial concussion and pretty much fucking up your life for a couple months. You were resentful that the fucker had survived the wendigo attacks. At least Dean had flattened the stupid bastard and loosened up some of said fucker's teeth, that was a little consolation.  
  
      All that lead to you staying behind at the Men of Letters bunker while Dean and Sam and Castiel went after Metatron. You were hurt and pissy and sore and angry, but even that hadn't been too much to handle at first. You didn't want to move at all the first week and had been fine with creeping around. Dean had left the freezer and fridge stocked with stuff you only had to heat up to eat; you did so dutifully.  You'd been working with Sam to update the library catalogue and while you were not up for climbing ladders or hauling out crates for inventory, you could perch at one of the tables with the designated library laptop and play data entry clerk for what was ready to be added to the files.  
  
      It was at the end of the second week that the Bad Days had set in. There was no real reason you could point to, there rarely was to such episodes. Maybe it was lack of sunlight or fresh air, cause it was too fucking much to haul your bruised and achy self up and down the stairs. Maybe it was because you missed your friends and being part of the energy and hustle that was default for a hunter's life. Texts and sporadic phone calls just weren't the same.  
  
      By the end of the third week it was full on Black Rock mode. It became too much trouble to leave your room except to visit the bathrooms. One look at yourself in the mirror –seeing only the worst, how you were both pale and splotchy at the same time, _stupid ugly hair, fat puffy face_ – and you were back to your darkened room. You did drink water, you could manage that much. Food had no appeal. You stopped taking your meds because when you remembered them it was too late in the day and you'd just have to wait until tomorrow. Except that with your fucked up sleep/no sleep you never were in a position to be awake and remember to take the damned pills in the morning. So you didn't take them.  
  
      Week four. You couldn't shower because you were just too tired. Too much work to wrap the cast on your arm, too much work to wash your hair one handed, just too much work. You didn't answer the phone the few times it rang, passing it off as leaving your phone in the other room when you finally texted back. You would respond to texts, eventually, but it was easy to cover Black Rock days in the texts. Dean and Sam were fully engaged in trying to find Metadouche so your brief answers and reassurances that you were fine slipped past them. Charlie was more suspicious and tried to draw you out but you were putting her off with _I'm fine, really, Chars, I'm just tired._ Cas sent you emoticons and they did actually pull a smile out of you here and there. His meaning was not always clear, but he was thinking about you and that counted.  
  
      Bad Day at Black Rock week five. Even you had to admit you weren't in great shape now. Your anti-depression medications were out of your system, you weren't even taking your vitamins and all you were eating were crackers or a chunk of cheese. Whatever was easy and took zero effort to acquire and consume. You knew what you needed to do. You knew what you _wanted_ to do. You just couldn't do it.  
  
      You were huddled in your bed, of course, with the blankets pulled up around you. They needed to be changed and washed but ugh, so much work. You'd forgotten to plug your phone in at some point. This only dawned on you when you heard shouting coming from the other end of the bunker. _Was that Dean? What the crap?_ You felt around in the dark for your phone and _well damn_. It was dead as a door nail and you had no idea how long it had been that way.  Since today? Yesterday? The day before? Who knew.  
  
     Yep, that was Dean shouting your name and running down the hall. Sam too, you could hear both voices echoing down the tiled walls. _Wellll fuuuuck_. “I'm here guys.” Your voice sounded hoarse, weak. You cleared your throat and tried again. “I'm here guys! I'm okay.”  
  
      “Fuck's sake kid you had us scared to death.” The door to your bedroom banged open and Dean hit the lights. You winced and curled down into your lap, hauling the blankets over you. “We didn't know what happened.. What did happen? Kid?” You could feel Dean cautiously approaching the bed. “C'mon, talk to us. What's going on? Are you sick?” His weight was against you, his arm reaching across to gently pull the blanket down. “Hey now. What's going on?” You could see Sam standing at the foot of your bed.  
  
      It took a lot of effort, so much effort, to lift your face and look up into Dean's serious green-gold eyes. There was concern and stress and you'd put it there into those beautiful eyes, made his brow furrow and his perfect mouth pull down. _Cause you sucked, of course you did, and you were a shitty friend to make him worry this way._ “It's nothing. I'm just tired.” That excuse did not work at all in person and you knew you sounded pathetic.  Dean wrapped you up in hug, pulling you and pillows and blankets and all into his lap.  
  
     “It's a Bad Day at Black Rock?” Sam asked this gently, leaning over and putting his hand atop your foot where it now stuck out from under the covers. At those words you just heaved a huge sigh, fucking grateful that you didn't have to say it, but you did nod a little. “Maybe a couple weeks.” Sam could see the signs in your room not to mention the way you looked yourself. “Okay, kiddo, we got this.” He patted your foot and straightened. “Dean?”  
  
      “Yeah I got her.” Dean kissed the top of your head and you tried to pull away, ugh you were gross. “None of that. You should have called us, honey. You know that.” He kissed your forehead when you made negative sounds. “First things first. Shower.” Dean picked you up and set you on your feet. While he unwrapped you from the Fortress of Depressitude Sam was going through your dresser drawers. Neither brother said anything about the way you looked: Pale and too thin, circles like bruises under dulled eyes, your hair a tangled mess. Dark clothes that hung from your body in a shapeless mess. You wouldn't meet his eyes as he handed Dean a set of clean clothes.  
  
      “Right, princess.” Dean just picked you right up, careful of your arm, shrugging off your objections and bouncing you in his arms. “Shower first. It's going to be all right.” Dean carried you into the bathroom and kicked the door shut behind him. He set you down, putting the clean clothes on the stack of towels that waited on a nearby shelf. He whistled to himself as he pulled your clothes off, examining you for bruising and pleased when he saw most of it was gone. There was still some ugly yellow around your rib cage but those deep tissue bruises took a while to heal. “Do we still have any of those plastic bags for your cast?” Normally Dean would have been happily making any number of sleazy cheesy remarks at your naked self but for now he was all brisk and business like.  
  
     “You don't have to do this Dean. I can manage it myself.” You spoke up after he'd wrapped your cast, then Dean pulled his t-shirt off and unbuckled his belt, kicking off his boots before stripping out of his jeans and boxers. Now _that_ got your attention, stirred a little jolt of interest. Dean grinned at you when he saw your eyebrows raise and the corner of your mouth quirk.  
  
      “Yeah I know you can, but then you'd miss out on all this.” He flexed his arms, something he'd not be caught dead doing where anyone else could see him, showing off for you and making his best Blue Steel face. Yep, that did it, you snorted a laugh. “Ah there's my girl. Come on kiddo.” He flipped the water on, fiddling with the dials to get the temperature right. You leaned into him and breathed in his scent, faintly man-soap with notes of Baby and a bit of the aftershave you and Charlie had bought him for his last birthday. The stuff had been hella expensive but so completely Dean, _wood smoke and leather and whiskey_. You'd missed that smell.  
  
     While Dean jollied you along into the steamy shower, washing your hair and all the rest of you as carefully as he detailed his Baby, Sam stripped your bed of all the blankets and sheets, emptied the pillows out of the cases. "Why does she need so many pillows? I'll have to ask her that." He piled all the bedding together and hauled it out to the laundry room. You could sleep with Dean or himself until it was washed and clean and that was probably a good idea anyway. Sam understood Black Rock Days better than his brother and was kicking himself for not doing a better job of checking on you. Sam frowned at the interior of the freezer. You hadn't been eating much at all and he was not going to stand for that crap.  
  
      Sam pulled out a large frozen something, some casserole Dean had stashed for a rainy day, and checking the note taped to the foil (400 DEGREES FOR ONE HOUR BITCH) got it into the oven and the temp and timer set. Then he went back to your room, flipped over your mattress, and gathered up all the empty glasses and dishes and carried them to the kitchen. He went back and repeated the process for clothes and towels (laundry room) and empty water bottles and the few paper plates (kitchen garbage.) Sam looked around, considering. There were no windows of course, but the place could use some fresh air. It was cold outside but not too cold, so he went to the back of the bunker and turned on the big fans that brought down air through the warded conduits. They had a timer and ran at set intervals but he felt like the place needed airing out.  
  
     You were thoroughly soaped and rinsed and Dean had applied conditioner to your hair, running a monologue of fake complaints about all this “girly stuff crowding up a perfectly good shower.” As though he wasn't opening bottles and jars and reading over the labels carefully before rubbing it on you or himself. You were turned towards him, face tilted up, leaning into his wet chest so he could rinse your hair out. You peeked up at him from under your lashes, grinning at his srs bsness face. He glanced down at you and smirked. “Aha, caught you. I knew you couldn't resist admiring my smokin' hot bod.” Well you _did_ in fact admire his smokin' hot bod but at this very minute it was simple admiration. Dean knew it, of course, since he had behaved amazingly well, soapy hands sliding over your breasts and down to cup your ass and clean every bit of you with no lechery whatsoever. You were half impressed, half insulted by how he was keeping everything as clean as possible, not just you.  
  
      “Maybe later. Your smokin' hot bod is more than my maidenly self can handle, I may swoon.” It took tremendous effort to try to pull yourself into the usual banter, but you smiled a real smile and Dean kissed you gently on your shower-soaked mouth. “The water's getting cold.”  
  
      “Fuck yeah it is, let's get out before we freeze.” Dean shut off the water and reached for towels, bundling you both up before the pair of you stepped past the shower curtains. The bathroom was fairly warm though as it was a very large room it wouldn't hold the heat long. “Does that crazy bastard have the air going? I will kick his ass five ways from Sunday if he does.” Dean was briskly toweling your hair off since you couldn't do it very well with a cast on one arm. You did manage to help get the rest of you dry, and Dean as well, maybe lingering a little longer than was really needed over his chest and biceps, and when you ran the towel over his hips and down his strong thighs. Unf. Yeah you needed Dean. You'd have to wait to the perfect moment to tell him you needed a shot of vitamin Dean. _Maybe you could catch him with a mouth full of drink, that'd be hilarious._  
  
      While you brushed your teeth and found deodorant Dean put his clothes back on then gathered the towels to take to the laundry. “Soon as you're done come down to the.. son of a bitch!” Dean had opened the door to the hallway and all the heat immediately whooshed out. “Sam DOES have the air going! Sammy!”  You looked at your reflection. Toothpaste foamy mouth aside.. you still looked like hell. You did feel a little better though. Patting your face dry on a hand towel you trudged down the hall towards your room. You needed to put on something warmer; this tank top wasn't going to cut it though Sam had picked out one of your favorite pairs of sleep clothes. Your nipples would be a hazard to all and sundry if you didn't get “Sam!”  
  
    He'd swung out of your room, smiling down at you and closing the door. “Nope, no going back to hibernation. Dinner will be ready soon.” He looked down at your still damp hair and right down your top. “Ah. Cold. Here, lemme get this.” Sam took your hand in his and pulled you along to his room, standing you against the dresser. Then he went to a trunk, opened it and rummaged around. “Here we go.” He was holding a dark red hoodie, a really large red one since it was his. “Let's get you into this, careful with that cast.”  Sam managed to dress you in his hoodie and stood back, openly grinning. “You look like Little Red Riding Hood.” It was an old college leftover, Stanford U written in white letters across your stomach since the thing came halfway to your knees. He'd pulled up the sleeve over your cast but the other still flopped down comically, the hood pulled down over your face. “Haha, well, at least it's warm.”  
  
    You had to laugh with him and pull the hood back. It really was warm and soft, and it smelled a bit like Sam. He was never going to get this hoodie back, ever. “Thanks for the donation to my wardrobe.” Sam fixed the other sleeve then took your hand again. Apparently he didn't believe that you would make it out into the kitchen without direct assistance. “I'm glad you're back, Sam. I missed you guys.” You weren't looking at him but you could feel him look your way, his thumb running over the back of your hand.  
  
      “Missed you too kid. Call me next time okay? Or text me. BDBR, I'll know what it means.” You gave a shaky breath; that was a lot to accept or acknowledge. Sam surprised you by lifting your hand to his lips and pressing a long kiss there. “It's going to be better.” You smiled up at him from under the hood, the kindness in his hazel eyes making your chest squeeze in a pleasant fashion.  
  
      “Yeah Sam. It's going to be better.” And it was. Later than night, warm and clean and sleepy, a tummy full of what Dean called a cowboy casserole, you did in fact feel better. A bit later than that and you were in Dean's bed, in his arms, your back snugged tight against his chest and his breath warm and even against your hair as he drifted into sleep. For the first time in weeks you felt like maybe it was going to be all right.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own Supernatural or its characters.


End file.
